Promise a Fever
by Angelas
Summary: 1848, London. Thorin is a fathering blacksmith of two nephews struggling to make mends meet during harder times. Thranduil is the newly settled nobleman demanding for the repair of a blade. Spite ensues, things escalate. [thorinduil]
1. No Better

**Plot bunny nearly killed me. o;**

**I've always marveled at London's history and wanted to implement it into these two little shits. Oh, and for the sake of not confusing you, Thorin is roughly 40 and Thranduil is 35.**

**meep. **

**oOo**

The storm had gone.

The sky had fogged, and the streets had muddied.

Black smoke caked itself into the air like a vomit of char, allowing no respite from the reek of soot and fish coming from the dockside.

Alas, it was the first thing that Fili's nostrils had been assaulted with the moment he had finally willed himself to open the door.

He gagged before shutting it again just as quickly.

"Jesus, Kili," he hissed, coughing up the stench onto the thick sleeve of his coat. "How does uncle do it? It smells like rotted fish out there!"

Kili poked his head from the kitchen, dish and towel in hand. "When doesn't it, would be the real question."

Fili nodded, crossing the room to sit on the edge of his bed with a frustrated crease pressed into his brow.

"Did you fix the leak, at least?" Kili called from the kitchen. "Uncle said there was another starting up just upstairs."

Fili sighed, rubbing his temples. Indeed he had attempted to clog the leak earlier that day, but to no avail. The wood in the roof was beginning to rot, and telling Thorin about it would only further dishearten their efforts in that desolate cesspit of a town.

Not that there was much left to dishearten, really.

It was bad enough that they lived so deplorably close to the docks, in a brick hovel slapped in between a butchery and a factory shop that steamed all night long from just down the opposite street. The bridge leading to the tanneries on the other side of town was the only way into the market, the only way in which Fili could get to their uncle and help him close up for the night.

How Thorin managed his sanity despite all this, Fili hadn't a clue.

Their uncle woke at the nick of dawn, and didn't return until the dead of dusk. He would come home, eat whatever sin Kili had conjured in the kitchen that day, and collapse into his bed without saying much of anything.

So Fili had grown to see himself as his uncle's rock. The oldest, and most brawny of the two, and if there could be one who could make it down the bridge and into the market without getting lost and panicking like a two-year-old, it would be him.

Oh, but how it absolutely _stank_ of fish.

Fili groaned, collapsing back into his bed.

"Kili, go to uncle just this once and help him close up, won't you? I always do this stuff."

"If you fancy a whipping when he gets back, then certainly, brother," Kili laughed. "I hadn't known that the simple smell of uncooked fish would cower you so quickly."

Fili frowned and shot up, a scoff in his throat.

There was too many a time in which Thorin had chased him all across the house with one of his belts in hand. And though Fili considered himself a fabulous sprinter, he would eventually give into the fatigue in his lungs and surrender himself to the lash.

Of course, Thorin was no cruel uncle, and so he would only whip him a few times (with a light hand, surely, because Fili knew he would've lied long dead otherwise), before letting him go. Kili would then take it upon himself to sob for the rest of the night, as if he'd been the one beaten.

But Fili knew better than to bring that up, even in jest to Kili's smug little comment. It would be crude, Fili thought, since Kili had grown to pride himself in having stopped so easily crying nearly two winters ago.

Fili was a strong man with little need to prove himself with words, after all. He was taller than Kili, better known than Kili, and certainly more handsome.

It was the stubble. Definitely the stubble.

So of course the reek of gutted fish should be no match for him.

"Fine," he said, tightening his coat about him. "I was just poking at you, anyway."

And with a charming smile that Kili had grown to hate more than Thorin's snoring, Fili braved himself right out the door.

**oOo**

Business had been slow that day.

In fact. business had been slow for several months now.

Though Thorin prevailed mostly in the honing and forging of blades and sharper things, the sword had truly become a lost art.

It was mostly horseshoes, wheel rims, and iron fittings now, along with the hushed occasion in which a younger nobleman came down from the Mayfair or Belgravia mansions pleading for the smelting of a ring or necklace for his beloved (most assuredly because it was no real secret that there wouldn't a smith within a several mile radius who would craft a nugget of silver into something so perfectly extravagant quite like Thorin Oakenshield could.. for such humble a price).

But it was shameful to associate oneself with a lowbrow commoner, no matter his skill.

So Thorin hadn't felt the raw weight of silver in his palm for various years now, laboring instead to wrought the lesser ilk of iron upon his anvil for hardly a coin.

The city would drain him of life, and rob Kili of his dreams.

For the lad spoke of schooling and books. _Expensive _books, and Thorin could not dream to afford any of both.

"In a few months now, eh, laddy?"

"In one, actually, if luck abides."

Balin furrowed his brow, looking to the wet filth of the stone ground. "You've dealt with Bard, then?"

"Ai. Agreed to bring us to the Port of Le Havre," said Thorin as he piled what was left of his unfinished work into boxes. "With the rent of a room, of course, and a job at a fishery. Double the coin, less hassle. He also mentioned a school near Rouen. Fili would find his calling. Both he and Kili could start there. Become architects, even."

"All this for a hefty sum of coin, no doubt." Balin crossed his arms, dubiety in the crease of his frown. "And your trade, Thorin? What of your trade?"

Thorin paused, a broken hammer in his hand. "I've sold all of my blades in the hopes of all this. Nearly lent away what was left of my sister's gems. It's memory, and will fade with time. I will not allow Fili the lowliness of nails and pickaxes once I am no longer there for them. Surely you know this, Balin."

"But Thorin, there must be some other way around this. Dwalin and I could–"

"You two have helped me enough, old friend. It's time I do things as I see fit. There is nothing left for us here, if not the luxury of famine."

Before Balin could press further, Fili came running, drenched in sweat. Thorin looked to him and dropped the box in his arms to the floor with a thud.

"And where were you?"

"Sorry, uncle," Fili huffed, trying hard to catch his breath. "Kili needed a hand in the kitchen." He turned to Balin and noticed the distraught look in his eye. "Master Balin? Are you alright?"

"Ai, laddy. Just cold and ready for bed, is all."

Fili nodded before going to help Thorin.

Indeed it was cold.

Freezing, at that, and Fili could not stop himself from shivering even as he moved up and about in his uncle's shop. It was nice here, though. Full of the talents that Fili admired his uncle for the most. He, too, wished deeply for the knowledge as to how a smithy was used. How a weapon was honed, how a fine blade was meld from a shapeless bar of metal.

"Do you think maybe you could teach me someday, uncle?" Fili asked, eying one of the rusted old daggers Thorin had abandoned in one corner of the room. "To be as good as you?"

Balin looked on in silence, noticing the way Thorin's eyes had lowered and darkened – the hurt in his brow – as he turned to face his nephew.

And if Balin had allowed it, the pang of refusal and shattered ambitions would have sure as death been echoed into the room that night. Balin could not bear the thought of it, however. Though Fili was inching closer and closer to the harshness of reality and labor, Balin knew greatly of how devoted Fili was to the worship of his uncle.

So Balin stopped Thorin in mid-word with his hand upon his shoulder, a squeeze in his grasp.

"Lend me a hand with the fruits, would you, laddy?" An old man like me finds it hard nowadays picking up shop."

Fili snapped from his stupor and looked immediately to Thorin, waiting for approval.

"Go," said Thorin after a moment, taking the dagger from Fili's hand. "Come back when you're done."

Ai.

All would come in time.

**oOo**

It was midnight by the time they returned.

Kili came rushing from the kitchen, smelling of onions.

"Uncle! I thought something happened, I was just about to go next door to–"

"Stay away from the fisherman," Thorin snapped. "I've told you twice."

"But uncle, aren't you going to eat? I've made broth and–"

"Not hungry."

Kili bit his lip and nodded, a silence falling upon them. Thorin shrugged off his coat and hung it at the door before disappearing upstairs to his room. A slam was heard, and then nothing else.

Fili stood still as stone at the door, giving Kili a soft look. He could see the dam brimming in his brother's eyes, and he knew it would break soon.

The food steaming on the table looked especially pleasing that night, after all, as if Kili had really mustered himself into it for hours at a time. Fili crossed the room, taking his brother into his arms. Sure enough, Kili buried his face deep into the fur of Fili's coat and began to quiver in the first droughts of untold emotion.

"There there, Kili," Fili whispered, threading his fingers through his brother's long hair. "Uncle's stressed lately. Master Balin said work's been eating at him. I'm sure he'll help himself in the morning before he leaves."

Kili nodded, clenching tight onto his brother's coat before gulping away his tears.

**oOo**

Once his door had shut, Thorin unclasped his boots and sat upon his bed to stare hard at the floorboards.

In a few weeks, he would have nothing.

He would sell the last of his tools and shop to complete the coin needed to pay for the trip, and for the advanced rent of a room he hadn't ever seen with his own two eyes. He would have nothing but Bard's word and the clothes on his back to hold on to thereon. And if the fisherman deemed it on a whim, Thorin would be thieved of everything and thrown into the sea, never to be heard of again.

As for Fili and Kili.. Well, Thorin didn't even want to loom on the matter.

He had never been to France; had no real official license to be there. It was a desperate situation, and so he had taken on a desperate measure. For Thorin could not possibly bear the thought of failing his nephews, of failing Dis in his promise.

Kili would have his dream, and Fili would have a future. Both would prosper.

All else mattered little.

**oOo**

On the first sign of light, Thorin was up and dressing.

He felt spent to the marrow of his bones, his fingers sore and blistered from the sear of his forge.

But it couldn't matter. Though his muscles wept for the softness of his bed, he managed through the door and into the pouring rain of the outside.

The streets were slicked with torrents, reeking of sewage. The harbors, of course, did nothing to help the cause. The sky, though in the nick of sunrise, shone only in dark clouds and gray fog. It was a dreary thing to be beheld in a city so blindly esteemed. Thorin availed his eyes to look only directly in front of him and nowhere else.

It was the fops of the Mayfair mansions and of the main district, he thought, who did nothing about this.

Who watched as good people starved, as children begged for bread, as more and more of the outlanders came and crowded what was left of London's clean air. This town would be its own downfall, and when there was no more trade, no more spare hands to do the filthy works of the factories due to plague or sickness or both, Thorin's only regret would be that he would no longer be there to laugh in the sump of its doom.

He shrugged off his two coats when he entered his shop, going directly to start a warm hearth.

He had two orders of horseshoes that needed finish, and then nothing else.

He went immediately to work, ignoring the sting in his eyes. He'd hardly slept through night (for he couldn't stop from constantly envisioning the undoing of his plans and of Bard's possible deceit), and could hardly keep himself from wanting so very badly to sit back into his chair and sleep.

Two hours passed, and Thorin was nearly finished. He left the irons to heat and sat down, cradling the thrum in his head. In a few more weeks all would be different. And though the reek of fish would forever be a fellow companion to him thereon, at least he would be properly paid to bear it.

He could hear the gentle hum of the rain outside, the silence coming in from the streets. It was too early in the day for most things. He was hungry, but had no money to spare on the luxury of food. He recalled how he'd barked at Kili the night before, and the ache in his head only worsened. He'd been stressed, heaving in conflict.

So many thoughts he could not speak, so little people left to trust. And though he had Balin and Dwalin forever loyal at his side, both had their own families and personal ongoing struggles, and Thorin could not possibly think to burden those two men any further than he already had.

His was one case amongst plenty, and Thorin was never one to find pleasure in the telling of his woes.

It was something that had undoubtedly strained his relationship with his nephews, however; how he no longer talked or listened to them like before. Kili was a tender one. He needed care.. attention, the nuzzle of his head now and then, all things Thorin wasn't ever particularly good at.

Fili was a lighter situation, but still, he needed warmth just like any other growing lad.

Perhaps Thorin really was a farce of an uncle. Unworthy, and utterly unmerited for the love of his beloved nephews–

"Stormin' quite heavy it is."

Thorin stood quickly in surprise.

"Bofur. Didn't think to see you today."

Bofur smiled and hung his hat at the entrance before shedding off one of his coats. He was positively drenched from the looks of it.

"Ai. Just thought I'd fling in for a quick visit." Thorin motioned for him to sit down, but Bofur shook his head and came over to stand on the other side of Thorin's workspace, taking a breath. "How are things with the two wee lads? Heard Fili's growing a stubble already!"

Thorin couldn't stop himself from curling the right corner of his lip in swell pride for his nephew. "He is. It'll grow into a fine beard someday, we'll hope."

Bofur laughed. "There isn't a Durin left alive who wouldn't allow himself the marvel. Business slow these days?"

"Ai," said Thorin, reaching for a rag to clean off the shreds of rust on the counter. "The occasional wheel rim if luck ganders. But it's mostly horseshoes now, if anything." Thorin paused. "And you, my friend? How fares your business?"

"With the holidays poking in 'round the corner, I've 'ad quite a few lads come in. Though I doubt much would change after winter's left."

Thorin nodded. "There will always be parents wishing for the smiles of their children. You bring a bright trade to this darker side of town, friend." He tossed the rag to one corner of the room, and grimaced. And after a moment he said, very faintly: "As I'm sure nothing here will be especially missed a month from now."

Bofur's lips parted as he thought further on Thorin's grim statement. His brow knit upward.

"Thorin, what?–"

But there came a chime at the door that left both Thorin and Bofur frozen in their skins.

**oOo**

It was quite a sight to see somebody wandering the lesser streets of London with a fairer tint of hair upon their head.

Yellow, more specifically.

Thorin had only seen one woman with such a feat come in with her husband years ago, though a large white bonnet had covered away most of it.

But never a man.

Never one so tall and so lucent, as if a light shone from wherein him.

Bofur coughed into the silence after a moment, muttering something of an excuse as he went towards the door, nearly brushing against the creature that now stood next to it.

Thorin hadn't moved and only stared, unable to say much of anything once the creature had wandered to the left side of his shop, treading its long, gloved finger against one of the old rusted blades Thorin had forgotten to unhinge from the stone wall.

Thorin wondered if he had been noticed at all, and for a minute, he allowed his gaze to wander.

The creature wore a tight-fitting overcoat with black boots of suede leather. A white velvet cloth lied meticulously tied around its neck, matching nearly the pallor of its skin. It stood perfectly erect (astute even), a tilt in its chin as it observed the various abandoned crafts on the wall from 'neath the thick veil of its lashes. It also carried a wrapped bundle in its hand. A weapon, perhaps–

"I hadn't known the shopkeepers of this city were so fell in their knowledge of manners."

The voice was deeper than most. It echoed.

Certainly not what Thorin had expected from such a terribly adorned bigot with waist-long hair that came spilling down from its shoulders like the golden flood.

"And I hadn't known a man was yet inclined to bear the length of a woman's hair." The creature turned sharply then on its heels, facing Thorin, but its face remained unchanged. "And I am no shopkeeper. I am a _blacksmith_, and have been for many years. You'd do well to remember this before you saunter in here, in a place I've owned and prospered since before the day you could properly suckle on your mother's tit."

The creature smiled.

Slowly at first, and then without choler. Thorin couldn't bring himself to look away even when it began to approach, so close that only the counter of Thorin's workspace separated them. The smell of trees seeped immediately into Thorin's nose, forcing him to draw his next breath a little quicker than seconds before.

"My apologies," the creature said, _whispered_, as if a sudden secret between them had bloomed. "It is my own unbecoming that has left us on so rigid a start. Allow me to tell you my name, if only I could have yours in return."

Thorin swallowed what was left of his pride, and lowered his eyes.

Perhaps he'd barked insult once too quickly.

Haughty fop or not, Thorin needed money. Badly.

"Thorin," he said simply.

The creature smiled once more (and may gods strike him dead for Thorin could not deny himself the indulgence of staring), before ungloving one of his long hands and offering it. Thorin shook it after a moment, albeit reluctantly, and felt skin that was softer than even the last woman he'd taken to his bed.

"I am Thranduil Greenleaf. I've just settled from Leeds, seeking to trove the many wonders of London."

Thorin scoffed. "You won't find many wonders here. If it's not hunger and filth you're intending to feast your eyes on, I'd deem you in the wrong place."

Thranduil chuckled softly. "Perhaps. Though I could not know fully when I've only just arrived."

Thorin stayed quiet, piercing his eyes into the horribly blue ones of the other. It should be crime to look so vain amidst the guise of something so fair.

"I've come for the sharpening of this blade, you see." With a swift movement, there was a heavy mound put on the counter. Thorin looked to the nobleman before bringing his fingers to the seams, unlacing the weapon from its confines. When he had, Thorin had entirely lost the ability to speak. "It's steel laced in moonstone. I've heard whispers of your talents, and could go to no other place. My son and I are terribly fond of Orcrist, and would hate to see it ruined."

Thorin couldn't take his eyes off of it.

Slim and gleaming; beautiful. A delicate blade twined with a single carven lacuna and a wooden haft.

He swallowed, not taking his gaze away. "Son?"

"Yes," said Thranduil, watching the other quietly with a lilt smirk. "Nearing the end of his adolescence in just a few months, no less." Thorin looked to him then, quite honestly surprised. If it weren't for his offhanded prying, he'd deem the man in front of him too young for a lad of his own. "And yourself, blacksmith?"

"Nephews," he said. "None of my own."

Thranduil nodded, looking to glove his hand once more. "I will pay you finely, Thorin, and will be expectant by the end of the week–"

"Tomorrow."

Thranduil stopped, a faint smile on his lips. "Tomorrow, then."

And before Thorin could say anything further, the man was out the door as if he'd never been there in the first place.

**oOo**

**so um. . is it a-okay for continuation? xx**


	2. Glitter Dust

**You guys are so owcoeEDEWcdsc. ily.**

**I'll try to keep the updates steady, as I already mapped out pretty much the entire thing. o:**

**oh will there be so much tearzzz~**

**oOo**

Night fell.

Exhaustion frothed itself into his every bone, and Thorin wanted nothing more but to finally go home.

He sat with his head cradled in his hands, drifting in and out of consciousness until Fili came rushing in through the door.

"Uncle!" he shouted, letting his coat spill to the ground in a terrible hurry. "I saw white dust outside! Like glitter! It was soft and wet – like ice! But it wasn't ice, I swear –"

Thorin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms before standing. His head immediately throbbed in complaint.

"It's snow, Fili. And I doubt that much of it will fall before thawing. Seldom the occurrence, if not two mornings long."

Fili's gaze lowered, the previous wonder in his eyes beginning to wane. He nodded, and said nothing further about it. Thorin motioned for him to start boxing things up, and so Fili went over and did without saying much of anything.

Thorin watched him quietly, however, and regretted almost the way he'd dismissed Fili's excitement.

But he couldn't.

Wouldn't, because Fili would soon be of age, and when Thorin was no longer there to shield him from the cruder sides of things, Fili would take his place. Fili would take his place and be twice, if not thrice, as potent than Thorin could have ever wished to be.

He would be intelligent and cunning, and he would watch for Kili and live out their lives with the spirit of a Durin, and if life were there to will it for them, both would have many a lad of their own.

So, no, Thorin could not regret his heavy hand. Could not regret even if he ached It so badly, to smile at Fili and tell him that _yes it snows and it is a beautiful thing and, look, we should gather it in this for Kili to see and have, _because even if Fili never mentioned it, Thorin knew more than he knew most things in life that the lad missed his mother dearly and that the whiteness of the snow would in turn remind him of his mother's love for the whiteness of lilies as she danced and danced through the dirt stone of London like a brazen sylph longing for her home of fields and flowers from wherein another world that never was.

And, _oh_, how Fili resembled her so utterly–

"Uncle? Are you listening?"

Thorin blinked, learning quickly that he had frozen in the middle of the room with a strip of leather held tightly in his hand. Fili stood at the counter of his workplace, his fingers tracing slowly against the lacuna of the blade that the coxcomb from earlier had brought in for honing.

"Where'd you get it, uncle?" Fili asked again it seemed, looking towards Thorin. "Did you make it?"

Thorin crossed the room, sliding the weapon away from Fili's hand as if it had suddenly been accursed. "It was brought in by some nancy living in the Mayfair, no doubt. Wouldn't have taken the thing if not for the coin."

Fili's brow furrowed, but he said nothing and instead nodded slowly in credence.

"When will we live in the Mayfair, uncle?" he asked instead, and it was a mighty spearhead straight into Thorin's chest. "Kili and I hear what our neighbors say, the huge white plazas of the Trafalgar Square and the beautiful big fountains that flow and flow with bright blue water – When will we go there, uncle? Surely we could at least visit someday to look –"

Thorin was silent until the weight in his lungs grew far too heavy to bear. He reached and grabbed Fili by the shoulder in a steel grasp, pulling him in.

"Fili," he started carefully. "We will leave this place. We will sail to the port of a French border, and we will not come back. There will be no Trafalgar, and there will be no Mayfair. There is nothing here for us but a slow death."

Fili's eyes went wide, and for a short moment in time, Thorin nearly felt terrible for having said anything at all.

"But.. Uncle, surely.. there is something we could do? Kili and I, we've grown up here, and so did you and ma, you've told us stories, great stories of jewels and coin and granddad's mansion – I could help." Fili went then to pick up the sword that Thorin had tossed to the wall with a desperate sadness in his eyes, though a smile had graced him. "Teach me, uncle, teach me and I could help you!"

But Thorin was not so easily swayed by a lost dream he once believed in himself, and he knew more than most now how the knife of hunger felt in one's belly. He knew death and he knew sickness, and he knew the look his sister had given him when she had perished from both.

"No," he said at last. "You cannot."

And so a storm hit and Fili cursed with a shout and slammed the blade to the floor and thundered out the door, leaving Thorin far behind him.

**oOo**

Sleep was brief.

He woke and dressed like he had countless times before at the gouge of sunlight.

Except this time, Thorin went into Kili and Fili's room for the first time in several months before having left.

He saw the oddities that Kili seemed to have taken to collect on his nightstand during his free time: tree twigs, pebbles, and a large array of leaves. Thorin's lip itched to curve at the sight of it.

He reached to caress the cheek of his youngest nephew, a warmth in his gaze.

But there was something else on Kili's nightstand, and it was a faded portrait of Dis.

She was light-haired with dark coils of wheat that matched Fili's, and with Kili's smile.

Indeed Kili had never known the love of a mother, or at least could not remember it. Thorin knew that in whispers, Fili would tell Kili some of the things he could recall himself, but truly Kili could not possibly feel a mother's kiss against his cheek through memories that were not his own.

Thorin took his hand away and looked then to Fili, who slept on the opposite bed. There was a frown pressed onto his face even though he slept soundly, and Thorin knew almost how broken Fili must have felt the night before because of him.

Looking away, Thorin closed the door to their room with a faraway grimace and left.

**oOo**

The morning was frozen with fog and drizzle.

Thorin entered his shop and went directly to the abandoned blade left on the floor before wielding it up to the light of the window, inspecting the dullness of its cut.

It was light as feather, a shameless masterpiece whose origins Thorin pondered heavily in secret as he went over to grab a bar of whetstone and razor strop. He ran his finger all along the curves of it several times, smitten by the impossible smoothness of its shank.

Moonstone, he scoffed. As if anyone could ever have the knack of taming such a delicate stone if not a Durin, let alone having the knowledge of how to lace it with the barbarity of alloy.

As he sunk his hands in talc and bandaged them, however, Thorin found himself thinking of the man who had brought it to him.

And of course it was out of utter hate that Thorin retraced that wretched smile in his mind's eye before branding his brow into a scowl from the sheer memory of it; how the man reeked of botany and powder, as if he rolled through it on his arse as he watched the world burn from atop his gated tower.

Because surely the git lived in one of the mansions, as Thorin could not possibly imagine him elsewhere.

Not that he even wanted to imagine him in the first place.

Catered and spoilt and lucent and wrapped in yellow sunlight–

"Thorin, are you there, my friend?"

Thorin froze mid-stroke, not bothering to avert his eyes lest he mirrored the bone-chilling shock of his thoughts.

"I am not your _friend_," he spat after a moment, returning to the whetstone and blade at hand. "You'd do well to remember that."

One would always be faced with a choice whenever acquainting with Thorin Oakenshield:

Indeed fuel his impossibly delicate temper.

Or ignore it.

Bard often chose to ignore it.

He approached Thorin's workbench, keeping a safe distance between them. "I hate to interrupt you so early in the day," he told him. "But there is something that I really must talk to you about."

Thorin slowed, but didn't stop. "I'm listening."

"Reaching Le Havre will be a long trip for us, friend. Difficult, as well. The tides are not on our favor this season, and my ship is in no condition."

"And what does that have to do with you being here when I am clearly working?"

"It means, Thorin," Bard stressed, "that I need some of the coin promised, lest we drown before we sail through the first draft."

This time, Thorin paused. "How much?"

"But it's not just that." Thorin dropped the blade in his hand and allowed it to clatter loudly onto the workbench. Bard took note of this and instinctively took a step back. "You know of Alfrid and his vigilantes, no? They would rat us to the law before we could even think to set foot on that boat without stamped shipment, you know this. But I have friends, Thorin. They would turn a blind eye and take a ship from the opposite dock, giving us way if there is enough fog during the night. But it's silence, friend, that does not come so cheap."

"And you wish for me to give you this bargain in coin from my own earnings? Is that it?"

Bard lowered his gaze. "I couldn't help you otherwise, my friend."

Thorin took then the step that separated them, and lifted a powerful hand to the collar of Bard's coat, reeling him in.

"Mark my words, fisherman," growled Thorin, "if you plan me a fool to your treachery – by the lost graves of my ancestors, I swear I will _kill_ you."

"I wouldn't ask this of you if there was one other way," hissed Bard. "I know of your nephews, but I have two girls of my own. If we fail, it's _both_ of us who will be stripped of everything – thrown to rot in prison stone, or worse. So before you lift your fist, _blacksmith_, I bid you ask yourself if you would have truly done the same for me if I had come to you for the same favor."

Thorin snarled before releasing him.

He gave Bard all of the coin he might have stashed, leaving only enough for a day's bread.

It was only the promised payment of the fop now that would have to ensure the whole of the week.

And possibly the next.

**oOo**

Night hit, and the blade had been perfectly whetted.

No one, however, had come yet to claim it.

Thorin paced his shop, not so much out of restlessness, but irritation.

Balin had stopped by earlier, but left rather promptly. Thorin wished that he could do the same.

Though, no matter how hard he tried otherwise, he couldn't quite stop himself from glancing at the blade that mocked him so as he circled back and forth across the room.

He could still recall, how the haft of a fine sword felt in his hand as he sparred with his father. How his sister fancied its art almost as much as he did, and beat him several a time to which point she had wounded his side once. He still bore the scar of it, deep and thick. It was in her nature to have chuckled and held him as he bled quickly through his clothes before she could have ever thought of weeping from the sight of it. She bandaged him, though never apologized, blaming him instead for his own plight.

_You great big useless thing_, she'd say.

And Thorin wouldn't have had it any other way.

"It is quite pleasing to the eye, isn't it?"

Thorin spun quickly on his heel, more out of reflex than surprise.

And of course he would find nothing to say when he found himself facing the man from yesterday so closely.

Only a wraith, Thorin thought, could possibly be that soundless.

"I imagine you care little for the time others," said Thorin. "Unlike many, I do not care for your wealth, and feel no obligation to impress you with the flattery of my patience."

Thranduil smiled. "Oh, but you could have left. And I would have returned another day just the same."

Thorin glared at him, going instead to busy himself with the boxing of his tools. Thranduil followed, shrugging off the weight of his overcoat.

"I deem it is a struggle for you–"

"It is for most," shot Thorin. "Though someone like you couldn't possibly know anything of hardship."

"I mean you no insult," said Thranduil as he painted his long fingers against the anvil of Thorin's forge. "In fact, it is only intrigue that keeps me longer than I must."

Thorin scoffed. "I have no need of company from someone like you. Though it would please me greatly, if you left the coin before making your merry way out the door."

"Must you dismiss so utterly," spoke Thranduil, approaching Thorin whilst he crossed the room to wet the fire inside the hearth. "When I am only just a **curious**," Thorin froze when he turned, for the taller figure of Thranduil now cornered him against the stone, "_customer_?"

And may gods strike him dead, for Thorin felt the wretched bite of a shiver all along the length of his spine when the smell of trees and growing things rode straight into his nostrils, tempting him to perhaps not move an inch but stay right where he was for the sake of another breath, or maybe three.

_Oh_, but how could anyone so perfectly rotted into their self-love be as dreadfully lovely as he–

Thranduil loomed over him now, his breath warm against Thorin's ear. And Thorin could have pushed him, could have punched him clean across the jaw for having crept as close as he had as if there were something suddenly swelling between them, something dark and deviant, when there clearly wasn't, couldn't–

Because they were both strangers, and because they were both men.

And Thorin was no manner of freak to embrace this.

He was a man of labor and bread, an uncle to his nephews, and nothing much more outside of that.

He should have cursed his distaste, he should have done many things, but he did none of them.

Instead, he stood there, like a hare caught in a snare, wide-eyed and staring like a maiden awaiting the taste of her first kiss.

"I don't think you know," whispered Thranduil, "how much you have slowly grown to annoy me."

And then, as if Thorin had imagined the entire thing in his head, Thranduil had stepped back and left Thorin cold in his stead.

**oOo**

Of course Thorin had regained his composure without much effort.

And of course he would act as if nothing at all had just transpired from within the past two minutes of his life.

He had watched in secret as the nobleman had sheathed his blade into its scabbard, and then he had gone to collect the coin left on the counter.

Coin which would, indeed, be more than enough for a week's assurance of bread. The good kind.

It was not in Thorin's intention to speak to the fop any further, however, let alone wait around until Fili came dashing through the door to the sight of all this. Though, Thorin knew not if the lad would come in that night, for Thorin knew just how angry Fili had been with him for having told him the situation they would soon find themselves in if all went as planned.

So he took it upon himself to do what Fili often did for him for the sake of doing something, and he began to sweep the bits of rust from the floor.

"Surely you would allow me to make up for my harsh words," said Thranduil after a very long and awkward silence. Thorin didn't stop in his sweeping and instead maneuvered past Thranduil, keeping a proper distance between them. "I invite you to my home, for wine. I do believe there is much that we could touch on.. If you would but allow us the pleasure of a conversation."

Thorin said nothing, ignoring instead the brief quickening of his pulse.

"Perhaps you could walk home with me tonight–"

"You've gone mad," laughed Thorin, "I wouldn't dream of it even if I were given a mountain full of gold in return."

Thranduil coiled his lips very faintly, dressing into his coat. "Then I would wait until tomorrow, when you've settled into a better mood."

Thorin turned, to curse an obscenity or two, but Thranduil was already at the door, tall and salient and as vain as ever before informing Thorin of a set of numbers along with the mention of Belgravia (and damn that place for it was sickeningly expensive to even breathe its air) from 'neath the dark curtain of his lashes.

Thorin gathered then that he had just been given an address, but hadn't the time to protest against its knowledge when Thranduil had already vanished into thin air like so many leaves in the wind.

**oOo**

**ehehehehh. xx**


	3. Taffetta Ley

**Oh god guise. I apologize for the lateness and length of this. But yeah. The plot must thicken.**

**I'm guessing this to be about 12 chapters long, with an epilogue included. We'll see. :D**

**oOo**

The next day, the hours went with hardly a customer.

If it were not for a single order of door hinges, Thorin might've just as well remained in bed.

He broke the iron needed and heated the forge. His mind wandered.

Of course it hadn't been in Thorin's intentions to have ever recalled anything Thranduil had said to him the previous night.

Yet, somehow, he had.

In fact, he recalled it all perfectly.

So when Fili came in that evening with a very stern look about his face, Thorin hadn't trusted himself enough to say anything that might've eased the tension between them, or made what he had told him a bit less sour to cope with.

He stilled in cleaning out the forge only when Fili had gone over to dust out the hearth. Thorin watched, quelling away the very sudden urge to have reeled Fili back by the collar, away from that place. To announce its sorcery, to burn it.

It was ridiculous.

He looked away, growling something in distaste, ignoring instead the questioning look that Fili had given him.

**oOo**

They returned earlier than most days.

Fili thought it odd. Very odd, but settled on saying nothing about it.

They ate in silence.

That night, Kili's determination to have sat as close to Thorin as humanly possible did not go unnoticed.

It was.. endearing.

So when Thorin had finished eating, he reached out and ruffled Kili's hair for the first time in several weeks. He stood then, disappearing upstairs without another word like so many times before.

Kili frothed where he sat, abashed.

Fili turned towards him after a moment, his eyes squinted low.

"And whose side are you on, exactly?"

Kili dropped his smile, clearing his throat. "What do you mean, brother?"

"You knew I was angry with him."

"I knew _you_ were angry with him, sure," Kili told him. "But what reason would I have to be angry with him?"

It only took a few seconds for Fili to decide that he wasn't, indeed, going to tell Kili about what their uncle had told him the night before – though it would have been a proper vengeance for such treachery on Kili's part. Instead, he shook his head and begun to clear up the table.

Kili watched him, his brow slightly furrowed.

"I asked you a question," pressed Kili, standing from his seat. He followed Fili towards the kitchen, indignant. Fili continued to ignore him, however. He asked two more times, but Fili simply brushed past him.

There would be little else that Kili would come to hate more than just that; to be treated as if he were a knat who refused to bugger off, as if he were a thing made only for Fili to constantly overlook, to constantly _transcend_–

"Or is it that you're just jealous?"

Fili scoffed, not bothering to look at him. "What could I possibly be jealous of in regards to you, blockhead?"

"That uncle clearly loves me more than he loves you, that's what."

Fili froze.

He threw the plates he had collected onto the counter and turned sharply, glaring down at Kili. Even so, Kili stood in place. It had grown increasingly difficult throughout the years for Fili to truly intimidate his brother despite his height advantage. An advantage that was beginning to wane quite quickly, no less.

"You really are an idiot," chuckled Fili. He pushed Kili back by the shoulder, nearly tripping him to the ground. "What makes you think that's true, anyway?"

Kili pushed Fili right back, a pink flush looming slowly onto his cheeks. "It's obvious that you annoy him. It's your fault he's been acting the way he has!"

"Oh really now, little brother?" Fili took a step forward, bumping Kili against the stone of the kitchen wall. "He doesn't insist for _your _help at the smithy, does he? Or for going and helping Master Balin, or for crossing the next bridge without getting lost, or for being useful – or for _anything_, really."

Kili fumed where he stood. He tried to push Fili back away from him, but Fili, of course, was much heavier than he.

"He would ask it of me," bit Kili, "If you weren't so bloody _insistent_."

"Insistent? Hardly. You brew stew and collect trash from the streets. Hardly becoming, if you ask me–"

"He trusts me!" shouted Kili, trying very hard to push Fili back from him with both his hands. "He does!"

But Fili could only stand to be so miffed by Kili's childish fits before his own temper shone through. He slammed Kili against the wall, smothering him by the neck with the sturdy breadth of his arm. Kili's eyes flew open, his breathing gone quick like a thieving mouse caught dead in the act. He attempted at a struggle, but the pressure 'gainst his throat amassed only further.

"Do you know what uncle plans for us both?" hissed Fili. "He plans to take us far from here, as outlanders, to a blasted French border – away from our friends, away from our memories, and away from ma's grave." Kili stilled into a lump of cold stone, watching Fili as if he had suddenly begun to grow a third head. "And you know what else, little brother? He didn't tell you any of this. He told _me._"

A long silence fell, and then Kili started to quiver.

Deeming Kili properly placid thereon from any more of his juvenile screaming, Fili allowed his arm to fall from his brother's neck. But it was careless timing, for Kili's fist had immediately met the bone of Fili's cheek with a sickening sound that had surely bounced off the walls loud enough for Thorin to have maybe heard from his room.

A single thread of red bled from Fili's lip.

"I wouldn't believe a liar when I saw one."

Kili left then, leaving them both bare of each others comfort for the very first time.

**oOo**

Kili could not sleep that night.

What Fili had told him could not be true.

He would ask Thorin once he woke.

But dawn was still plenty of hours away, and Kili could not reach sleep even as he roused again and again from 'neath his blankets.

Fili had gone into bed earlier without a word of what had happened in the kitchen. Sleep had taken him swiftly, somehow. The snoring was loud enough to know this.

Another reason, Kili thought, why he couldn't fall asleep.

He toyed with one of the pebbles he'd found down by the docks just the other day, spinning it back and forth in his hand. It was an odd shade of blue. Smooth, too. Kili wondered if someone had dropped it, if it was worth anything. Thorin's birthday was coming up, after all–

Footsteps came echoing from the ceiling.

Kili quickly hid the stone under his pillow and closed his eyes again, feigning as diligently as he could. The noise went then towards the stairs, heavy and loud with the weight of Thorin's boots. Kili's resolve to confront his uncle ebbed with each footfall, as even the mere sound of Thorin's breathing could pass as being the most intimidating thing one could dare to face.

Thorin was tall. Big, and with shoulders that could lift six Filis or more. His arms were thick with years of labor, weathered in some places from the aftermaths of his trade. He always looked angry or bothered by something, as if there were some sort of weight holding his brow low in that way.

Yet, sometimes, when Thorin must think only that no one would be there to notice, Kili would see a crack in his pensive demeanor – a sort of sadness in his eyes – quiet and passive and mostly faint, but very much there for the brevity of a moment or two if one had the luck to decrypt it. Kili thought it strange at first, a jest his head insisted on playing, for Thorin could not possibly be as sad as he looked in those seconds.

Indeed it must have been tricks of the candlelight, and nothing more.

Everything was fine, after all. They had one another. What else would be missing if not Dis?

Eventually, Kili had somehow mustered the courage to have slipped from his covers. He would confront Thorin with Fili's lie and learn the truth for himself.

As he tip-toed away from bed, however, Kili heard Thorin pouring water into something. He could see the light from the oil lamp in the kitchen suddenly flicker in through the rift of the door.

Biting his lip, and with his curiosity terribly kindled, Kili was helpless not to have let the wooden door of the room to wind open by itself. He allowed himself to peek through the small cleft, and saw something he hadn't ever quite seen before.

It was Thorin at the sole mirror they owned, primping the ragged edges of his beard with an open razor.

His hair was damp, as if he'd drawn a bath for himself outside midst Kili's inability to stay asleep. The dark ripples of his hair seemed longer that way, the gray in them matching the gray fur of his coat. His skin lied wiped clean of grime, and in turn made him look younger. He seemed dressed for an occasion. And if Kili held back the flush of his cheeks long enough to admit it, Thorin did, indeed, look incredibly handsome.

Kili knew then that he wouldn't be able to face him if he tried. Not with the shock still fresh in his bones, and not with his uncle looking like he'd been kidnapped and replaced by an entirely different person. So he stayed put behind the door and watched, holding his breath, as Thorin groomed himself as Fili would sometimes attempt, but with much more mannish finesse.

Kili's cheeks warmed the more he looked.

When Thorin had at last gone out the door, Kili contemplated deeply whether or not he should incline himself to wake Fili in order to tell him all of what he'd just seen. He stood by his brother's bed, his hand hovering over Fili's shoulder, but ultimately decided against it.

He would tell him in the morning, when things between them weren't so stiff.

Kili slipped into his covers, allowing himself to finally drift into the brace of dreams.

**oOo**

The night lied mostly emptied.

What remained of the snow now melted itself into the stone ground of the streets, blending perfectly into the filth it had the utter misfortune to have accompanied.

Haze caked itself throughout the town, the immanence of rain perhaps moments away.

There are shadows at every turn, and Thorin knows from experience that wherein any of those corners must indeed be danger, a cut-throat or a thief watching him closely, testing his composure, or for an opportunity to maybe flank him when he seemed the most vulnerable.

But Thorin is known for what blood his veins carry, and most would know better than to goad him in the dark.

When he crosses the Western bridge that leads directly into one of the upper echelons of town, he tells himself he would rather not do this.

He tells himself that if there were one other way to go about this, he would have gladly done it.

But there is none other, if Thorin hopes to leave as quickly as the utmost circumstances would allow him.

If he could just seek one, or maybe two, more favors from Thranduil (the fixing of another sword, perhaps, or the smelting of one thing or another), he'd be able to pay Bard the remainder of the coin much sooner than he'd promised.

He would sell his smithy and be done with it, and he would never have to walk upon this wretched town again.

If he could just go through with what he'd already started and somehow manage a decent enough conversation with the fair-haired prig, he and his nephews could quite potentially be on their way to Le Havre in less than two weeks.

But with each step that brought Thorin closer to the crisp air of Belgravia, his thoughts alone began to lose much of their initial merit.

This was stooping quite low in retrospect – bathing and primping for the sake of work. What other ilk of being would do this if not a whore?

And he is no beggar, either, he thinks. He is a man of honest work and of two lads whom he would nearly dare to call his own.

He looks around and sees that he is surrounded now by large stucco towers and buildings reeking of wealth and of ludicrous value. He recalls Belgravia's twining streets as if they were drawn on map for him, for Thorin was once a lad who, too, came to live so closely to them. But Thorin refuses to think much on those memories, and instead he looks only straight ahead of him, knowing very well where Thranduil's home will be.

He walks slower now, blending himself into the gloaming of the moonlight. He wars with himself whilst walking past several wealthy men who blindly tip their hats in his regard until he reaches the very section of the district's boughs that reign only with the most adorned abodes.

He stops when he finally faces Thranduil's home.

It is immense in height, plastered in white hues and several curtained windows.

Its gate lies unlocked and open.

And with a breath that Thorin forgets to let out, he urges himself to step into its brace.

The wind sobbed quietly in his wake, the smell of trees and flora swallowing him into a vegetal swarm.

**oOo**

When Thorin found himself stepping onto the doorstep, he learned quickly that he had already regretted his decision long ago.

But as he went to leave – dearly humiliated then by the folly of his initial plans – the opening of the door before him struck him frozen where he stood.

He dared himself to turn. When he had, he saw something very fair.

Not Thranduil, but something very much akin to him.

It was a young man. Tall and lean, dressed in fir thread and suede boots. His hair was as Thranduil's, flaxen, but not quite the same length. His eyes were the same wicked blue, with white skin to match it.

He looked at Thorin for a long while, an unspoken question knit into his brow before calling out,

"Father, there is a strange man standing at the door."

**oOo**

Thranduil appeared seconds later, towering easily over what Thorin guessed to be his alleged son.

He said something to him that Thorin couldn't quite hear amidst his inner torment for having been officially caught at a fop's doorstep.

The young man stepped back and left.

Thorin tried despite his unease to look as if he were not so suddenly sick to the stomach by such inglorious situation. Thranduil said nothing at first, but merely stood there, eyeing Thorin with a narrowed gaze as if deeming him truly there or not.

Once Thorin allowed himself to notice, he saw that Thranduil wore nothing but an exceptionally thin velvet robe.. One of which Thranduil was still in the process of properly tying around his waist.

Ai. It was a very strange situation, indeed.

"Please," spoke Thranduil after a moment. "Come in."

He stepped aside, and Thorin hadn't much of a choice but to accept the invitation. He wouldn't bear to hear the end of it from himself if he were to indeed turn back and run off like a cowered fool. He stood in all of the valor that his height allowed him, and made certain to keep a tinge of distaste at the corner of his mouth when the door had been shut from behind him.

It wasn't long until Thorin found himself enveloped in the true insignia of Thranduil's wealth.

His home was varnished in several russet hues, cavernous, yet tastefully adorned. Impressive woodwork embraced the majority of the furniture and walls, along with a tile flooring that reflected almost perfectly the ceiling above. A large candled chandelier shone brightly from the high cap of the entrance hall, allowing a soft light to shroud about the spacious ocean of what was only the first floor. From where Thorin stood, he could see the twining of a large staircase that led to one other level (or more, he hadn't a clue), paintings of things leading into dimmer light and stained-glass windows.

There were shut doors all about.

A labyrinth.

A desolate maze, if not for the two of them stranded in the middle of it.

If Thorin were someone prone to be easily astounded, he would have stood there in utter marvel, tongueless. But he wasn't much a humble rustic to those he felt deserved not their fortune, and so therefore he hooded his eyes in disdain and arched his brow in little interest.

"How did you see me?" asked Thorin. "Have you spies from your every balcony?"

Thranduil chuckled, a small noise that echoed.

"Legolas must have spotted you from the balustrade of his room. Amidst his star gazing, perhaps." He paused, turning on his heel. And if Thranduil weren't so close to nakedness, Thorin might have possibly been spared the need to stare. From behind, Thranduil could very much pass for a very tall and fluid woman, if not for the broadness of his shoulders. "I would have been the one to welcome you, but I was assured you wouldn't come. It is late, after all."

Thorin didn't trust himself to speak. He looked away, busying himself with one of the paintings on the wall.

"Though, I am always willing to entertain a guest no matter the hour. Come, I'll show you to the parlor."

Thorin followed despite the violent urge to stay right where he was.

He was led through the enormity of the entrance hall and into a doorless room, dimly lit by oil lamp. It reeked of wood and oak, but then again, the entire cursed place stank of only that. Thranduil motioned for him to sit down in one of the divans. Thorin did, with reluctance.

"I gather you lack slaves for your own son to be the one opening the door to strangers."

Thranduil smiled, crossing the room.

"There are no slaves here, my dear blacksmith. Legolas and I are not quite set in the American ways, nor do we wish for the burden of live-in company."

Thorin watched Thranduil pour a stream of something strange into two glasses. It looked a dark brown liquid, _thick_, with a strong odor that instantly riddled itself into the room. It wasn't foul, Thorin thought, though he'd never smelt anything like it.

Thorin accepted the glass given to him with a cordial enough nod, though Thranduil's fingers had lingered a little too long for Thorin's liking.

Even so, Thorin forced himself to ignore it. He watched as Thranduil took the opposite seat in front of him, saying nothing.

A silence fell upon them which mostly consisted of Thorin staring into his glass. He thought that if maybe he were to fling the thing into Thranduil's face and then leave right out the door with a jeer or two, there wouldn't be much dishonor in his retreat. His brow furrowed. Yes, perhaps that would be best–

"I do not intend to poison you, if that's what troubles you," spoke Thranduil, nearly making Thorin jump in his seat. "It's Cognac, but only the best of its kind. Surely you would at least try it."

So Thorin did after a moment.

It tasted old, like fermented wood, with the tang of the grapes that might have been aged with it. It felt thick on the tongue, leaving a keen aftertaste on the back of Thorin's throat. Oh, but it was a fine wine, indeed. Though it was not in Thorin's intentions to have mirrored this even as he took another precarious sip.

"Not too horrid, if one cares for brandy."

Thranduil coiled his lip before sipping into his glass. He watched Thorin closely.

"You've mentioned nephews," he began. "Are their parents away?"

Thorin straightened high into his seat, giving Thranduil a cold look. "What's it to you?"

"Merely a chance for conversation, if you would allow it. Though, sitting in perfect silence would be just as fine with me."

Thorin remained quiet for a moment. He looked to his glass and downed what remained of it. Thranduil stood and brought the bottle to the table. Thorin took immediate use of it, filling his chalice to the brim.

"My sister is dead," he said simply. "Their father, as well."

Thranduil looked away. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't believe I asked for your sympathy," bit Thorin. "Death comes early to all who have nothing."

"I meant no harm. Few would take those who are not their own into their care."

"Few would pry," shot Thorin.

Thranduil lent a faint smile. He watched Thorin refill his glass. "Forgive my curiosity."

Thorin grunted in upshot before clearing his throat. "What of yours? Is your wife away?"

Thranduil darkened at the question. He sipped into his glass before setting it down. "My wife.." he whispered, hardly loud enough. "She is not with us."

"So she is away."

"She is.. gone."

"Dead, then?"

Thranduil stiffened in his seat. He tightened his robe about him, as if he were suddenly very cold. Thorin's brow arched, his head a little lighter than before.

Actually, he didn't quite feel his head anymore.

"I wouldn't know."

Thorin paused, understanding now the faraway look on Thranduil's face. If Thorin were to guess, the man had been abandoned by his consort. "Perhaps our prying has evened."

"Perhaps not," offered Thranduil. He reached for his glass. "She left once, and did not come back."

Thorin said nothing. He sunk into his seat and clenched his eyes. The room spun for a moment, and then everything looked too bright.

"What of you, blacksmith? Surely you must have someone at your side during these darker times."

Thorin laughed. "I haven't the time for such foolery when all of the people I've known keep dropping like flies."

Thranduil nodded. The light in the oil lamp flickered.

When at last the room fell utterly still, the bottle of brandy between them was enough to fill their hour of silence.

**oOo**

Thorin had taken the last drink.

He set his glass down, dizzy by then.

Though, there did lie a sense of serenity that had eased itself upon his shoulders.

He felt lighter, as if he could will himself to float.

He slouched into the divan, staring up at the suddenly very fascinating ceiling.

Thranduil, however, sat as erect and as astute as ever. He studied Thorin very closely, swirling his wineglass between his long white fingers in a practiced dance.

Yes.

Thorin was a handsome man. And quite the reverence when adorned so tastefully in the gray furs he wore. Like a lost king who'd never found his throne, thought Thranduil. Like someone with a soundless sense of pride, quiet, and always in thought; someone who brought willing queens to the mercy of his lips, and brought envy into the hearts of their kings.

Lost.

Forever lost in this age, in this epoch, and in the dark, unfortunate famines of an English land.

Perhaps, thought Thranduil, in a day long since past, Thorin had, indeed, bore the weight of a crown upon a throne made of only gold and sheer silvers. Revered and loved, with two worthy heirs loyal at his side. Perhaps Thorin had smiled once.

Perhaps not.

"Would you be interested in seeing the upper floors?" asked Thranduil with a distant sort of tone. He stood, lighting a candle before placing it on a small salver. "I suspect you might find at least one to your liking."

Thorin hadn't the calibration to properly weigh his options this time even if he had tried.

He stood much too messily (and much too quickly), careful not to step on his own two feet as he followed Thranduil's lead towards the wooden staircase.

**oOo**

There were three floors in all.

Thorin wouldn't be able to remember most of what he'd seen, nor would he be able to properly stand by the time they reached the middle of the hall on the second floor.

It was dark, lit only by the candle that Thranduil had taken with him.

The wind howled in through the few open windows, allowing the moonlight of the outside to shed upon an eery shadow all throughout. Stars shone that night.

Thranduil looked pale as milk. Long and lovely and fluid in his stride, as if he were a phantom that couldn't quite be touched. Thorin stared despite himself. The robe Thranduil wore was hellish, hardly proper, and hardly becoming for someone who seemed not to know of its effect.

Thorin wondered, just once, how the skin underneath it would feel.

Would it feel like a woman's? Would it feel soft? Would it feel delicate 'neath the lick of his tongue? Would it–

" –this is Legolas' room. I had insisted he'd take the more spacious one above, but–" Thranduil stopped, turning towards Thorin. "Are you even listening?"

But both of their breaths had been cut short when Thranduil had dropped the candle and its salver to the tile of the floor. The breadth of an inch separated them, their heights nearly met in the darkness of the hallway.

It could have been many things.

It could have been the way Thorin had looked at him as If he were a fell predator that lurked in the shadow.

It could have been the way Thranduil's lips had parted, the question tinted on them, or the carnal promise of which they so loomed.

It could have been nothing at all.

Thranduil lent, brushing the warmth of his lips against Thorin's own. They froze for a very long moment, breathless, staring at one another as if they'd both suddenly transgressed beyond even the crime of murder.

Wary, and nearly shaking at what he'd just done, Thranduil opened his mouth to speak.

"Surely you must hate this," he whispered in a desperate plea. "Surely you must_ loathe _me."

But Thorin said nothing to him and merely stared, still as stone. The sound of rain came then from the windows. All was quiet. Thranduil pressed himself against Thorin's chest, cornering him into the stucco of the hallway.

"Won't you stop me?" he uttered. His ringed fingers trailed Thorin's cheek.

Thorin snatched his hand away by the wrist, causing a gasp to cake itself into Thranduil's throat. It was Thranduil's turn to grow stiff when Thorin had violently switched their positions. His back hit the wall, his robe falling slightly from his shoulder. Thorin growled before smashing his lips against his, pressing him securely into the woodwork of the wall.

The act was anything but tender.

Thorin bit at Thranduil's lip, nipped what he could, and held both his wrists high above his head, until, finally, a willing invitation was granted to him. Thorin shrugged his coat off in a hurry, allowing it to spill at their feet, forgotten, just as his restraint had been forgotten somewhere far beneath.

It was sin, a free ticket to hell, but Thranduil was sweet and lovely, and Thorin was drunk and _hard_.

He kicked Thranduil's legs apart with his knee and **pressed **until Thranduil could do nothing but writhe in embarrassment. With his free hand, Thorin untied the knot that kept Thranduil hardly dressed, separating himself from the nobleman's mouth only so that he could watch the fabric spill like a silver river of lace at Thranduil's naked feet.

"You are absolutely wretched," hissed Thorin, the smite of liquor laced into his breath.

He ran his ruthless gaze over the unworldly creature set bare before him, leaning then to kiss what Thorin couldn't yet believe real.

Thranduil stopped him, however. He bucked his hips into Thorin's arousal, making both their wishes very clear. "You would have me next to my son's bedroom door?"

Thorin grinned a dark grin, pushing Thranduil back into the wall with a dry thrust of his hips. "I would have you as a whore. I would have you sobbing on my cock. I would have you in tears, choked with come."

Thranduil's brow knit upward. He squirmed, biting away the sounds in his mouth. Then, without much warning, he slipped down from the wall and to his haunches, thighs wide open, and begun the frantic search for Thorin's belt buckle.

Thorin grasped him by the hair – _the soft yellow ocean of his hair_ – and watched with amusement through the thick veil of his foggy vision.

When Thranduil had at last managed to relieve him from his confines, Thorin swallowed away the groan in his throat that had threatened his composure. Thranduil's breath was hot liquid air on his cock, the hunger in his blue wicked eyes doing nothing to ease the pulse of his prick.

Thorin was big. Heavy, and viciously hard.

He closed his eyes, allowing the furnace of Thranduil's mouth to take him by the inch. The wet lap of his tongue toyed with the vein that throbbed beneath. If it were not for the shock in his bones that sustained him upright, Thorin might have fallen, for it was the first time in ages since someone had done such a sordid thing to him. And selfless, too.

Selfless, unless of course, Thranduil did, indeed, take pleasure from sucking on cock.

Thorin tightened the reign on Thranduil's hair, allowing himself to crane back for the sake of a breath.

Thranduil hummed on him,_ choked_ on him. The snipe of his tongue coated Thorin thoroughly with the godless precision of a practiced catamite. He tilted his golden head to the side, engulfing Thorin nearly halfway.

Thorin was helpless not to gasp. He looked beneath him, met with the long lashes and lucent pallor of Thranduil's skin. The starlight that bled from the nearby window etched his face into impossible symmetry.

Fair as silk. _So fair_–

He was going to come.

_Oh_, but it could not possibly end this way.

Thorin hauled Thranduil up by the hair, locking him immediately into a felt kiss so that he could plunder the taste of himself away from him. Thranduil mewled against him, wormed for more.

Thorin threw him up against the wall without effort, allowing Thranduil to wrap his long legs tight around his waist.

"Yes," whimpered Thranduil. "Yes, _please yes_."

But in the precise moment in which Thorin had reached down between them in order to prep his cock against the other's hole, Thorin had suddenly froze gelid in his place.

His palm had brushed against something amidst his drunken haze.

Something hard and akin to what any man would have between his legs.

No.

Thorin could be no ilk of deviant to deny the knowledge of this.

And within that hellish thought, he saw all those who had been hung in the public square for their crimes of something just as this.

For the crime of buggery could only be construed between two men, amongst freaks.

The vision floored Thorin straight into a sudden spiral, and the vertigo that had spun him all around the room struck him like an iron mace across the chest, heaving the air straight from his lungs.

He was a man of bread. Of labor, of two nephews who were left with nothing but a whispered promise from their mother's dying lips, a promise of which Thorin would cross fires for.

No, Thorin could not allow himself the sin–

Could not allow himself the softness of Thranduil's skin.

He recoiled from Thranduil in an instant, leaving him cold and bare against the wall.

There grew a silence so thick between them that Thorin couldn't even think to speak.

Thranduil's lips parted, an untold emotion etched weakly into his brow. He staggered to cover himself with the toiled fabric of his robe in a wounded panic. He cradled into himself, unable to meet the weight of Thorin's shame.

"Leave," he said.

So Thorin did.

**oOo**

**dont forget to leave me a little something. mwuah. xx**


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